


five little piggies (four bloody lines)

by girlsarewolves



Category: A Nightmare on Elm Street (2010)
Genre: Bisexuality, Canonical Character Death, Creepy, Dark fic, F/F, F/M, Gen, Ghosts, Implied/Referenced Biphobia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Masturbation, Mild Gore, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Questioning Sexuality, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-27 19:56:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16226231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlsarewolves/pseuds/girlsarewolves
Summary: a collection of four and five sentences fic.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is me attempting to get back into writing, but trying something with low stress levels and low commitment. Also I recently rewatched the remake and remembered that I have a lot of feelings about it.

* * *

 Dean drinks his coffee the same way she does - black and bitter with nothing to dilute it.

Nancy is tempted to ask if he just likes the overpowering taste, or if he needs it that strong to perk him up until the caffeine kicks in, or if he's worried adding anything to it might make it less potent. Does he down four to five cups each time he comes in because he's just that much of a caffeine addict, or is he that desperate to stay awake?

She never asks - but when she sees his body crumpled on the ground, Kris sobbing over his bloody, open throat, she has her answers.

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This drabble brought to you courtesy of theyearofthewolf's prompt, "pillow talk".

* * *

"You draw this one figure a lot."

Kris' fingers comb through her hair. She doesn't open her eyes - doesn't dare - but savors the gentle scrape of nails against her scalp, the careful tug on her hair as they brush down.

"I see it a lot in my dreams."

"That's cause it's you, Little Nancy," he growls in her ear, nails becoming razors, gentle becoming sharp - she opens her eyes, but she's the only one in her room.

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

Steam hits his skin - humid and burning - and the hot, heavy dampness of the boiler room fills his lungs, his nostrils, his mouth, until it's hard to breathe. 

 _It's just a dream,_ his younger self says, caged behind rusted pipes that leave angry blisters on his skin; _It can't hurt you._

"But I can."

Quentin wakes gagging, his mouth swollen and full of rusty, burning liquid, and he rolls over to avoid choking on his own blood - there's red everywhere, all over his sheets, as his back stings from the four ragged cuts trailing down like a fucking caress.

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

Quentin comes to the diner every weekend during her shifts, invites her to every party he's going to, seeks her our amidst the crowded halls between classes; she thinks she likes him, likes his persistence and the way he looks at her when she talks to him, smiles at him, tells him she'll try to come.

Kris smiles at her, speaks softly and warmly when they talk, tells her it's good to see her when they cross paths, always welcoming and always giving her space; she knows she likes her, knows she wants more, knows she'll never get it when she sees the way Jesse lingers like a shadow, Kris always letting him in even when he doesn't deserve it.

(Freddy is always there, wherever she goes, touching and taunting and tormenting; she hates him, hates the revulsion he thrives on, the way he invades her and violates her and won't ever let her go.)

Nancy touches herself at night, and she sees each of them, no matter if she wants to or not, and it always ends with her frustrated and fighting back tears; she doesn't understand herself, doesn't understand why it never feels right, no matter who she thinks of, no matter how badly she wants to know what it feels like when it's good, when it's hers.

* * *

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For theyearofthewolf, who requested Dean/Nancy/Kris ot3-ness.

* * *

Kris thinks they're all made up of scar tissue; old wounds that have scabbed over, closed up, but will always be visible, nothing but marred flesh and phantom pains.

There are four jagged lines down her torso; a long gash from one ear to the other on Dean's neck; Nancy is a patchwork canvas, four lines here, a burn there. Unlike the others, the ones he never left a mark on until he was done with them, he couldn't help leaving marks all over her.

They touch them a lot, when she's okay with it; Dean will cover with his hands, Kris will gently kiss. They all know why he left those scars, why he drove her to hurt herself just to keep from dreaming, so they take them from him, give them back to Nancy as best they can.

It's always quiet here, in the dream realm, stuck in this lonely limbo existing solely in Nancy's dreams, but they make the most of it here.

* * *

 


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

Butterflies in her stomach; that's how it feels every time Kris looks at her.

Even now, when she's half decayed, standing by her grave.

Even later, when she's covered in blood, standing by Nancy's bed.

Even in sleep, when she's wearing Krueger's clothes, gloved hand on Nancy's stomach.

"You're so pretty, Nancy," she whispers in a sing-song voice that sounds like Kris but isn't; "Isn't that what you always wanted me to say?" she asks, and there's butterflies, even then.

* * *

 


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

"Dean was my friend too," he'd told Kris; it wasn't a lie, and it wasn't completely the truth either. He'd never been honest with himself, though, so how was he supposed to be honest with Kris, especially now, when it was too late?

They're both hanging next to him here in this hell - limp and bloody and lifeless - like mockeries, reminders in these final moments that he'd failed both of them, that he'd never told either of them all the things he'd wanted to so badly.

"What would your old man thing of you if he'd known, Jesse?" Freddy taunts him, razors dragging down through his belly, slicing away like he'd done with Kris but in reverse; "If he'd known his son was queer? Think he'd have blamed me? Hhm?"

_Dean was my friend too_ ; and he told himself that was why seeing Dean and Kris grow closer hurt - that's why it felt like a betrayal, why his blood ran hot with jealousy when he saw them together, that it was just because his friend was with his girl; he never dared think it was because he wanted them both and both were lost to him.

In the end he's with them both; a final insult from a ghost.

* * *

 


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

Things are quiet at home - well, quieter - and there's a heaviness in the silence between him and his dad that didn't used to be there; an anticipation, apprehension, waiting for the other to break it first.

He  should apologize, probably, for flipping out, for being so quick to believe the best of Krueger and the worst of his dad; he'd been looking for an excuse to see his dad in such a bad light for a long time, long before the nightmares had started.

Quentin isn't sure if he's so screwed up because of Krueger, or because of everything being swept under the rug, denied, avoided, ignored. Sometimes he wants to apologize only to then call his dad out for all the lying and pretending.

But he settles for a soft 'sorry; one night, too tired to muster up the energy to be angry, especially when he knows that he and Nancy have now committed the very same crime as their parents; he's surprised at the relief that comes with his father's acceptance and his own weary apology.

* * *

 


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

_Creek, creek_ ; the rusted spring of the pony complain as the wind blows hard enough to move it.

 _Click, click_ ; something hits clacking against the metal frame of the fence, something light and small, the sharp clicks echoing across the playground.

 _Scraaape_ ; it drags, metal on metal, along the frame, coming closer.

 _Wake up, Kris, wake up_ , she tells herself, but when she closes and opens her eyes she's still there, so she runs instead; her feet moving but going nowhere, running in place as snow becomes something thick and sticky and slowly she's sinking with every rise and fall of her feet, she's sinking.

"Boo," a voice, harsh and deep like a muffled growl, whispers in her ear.

* * *

 


End file.
